


in the absence of a plan

by moiraes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 15x20 doesn't exist but I do take very very light inspiration for things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Compulsory Heterosexuality, Gen, M/M, Oblivious Sam Winchester, Post-Episode: s15e19 Inherit the Earth, Profound Bond Gift Exchange (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:34:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29601138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moiraes/pseuds/moiraes
Summary: The question is out of Sam's mouth before he can think better of it. “And you? What about your happy ending?”If Dean’s expression had been hard to read before, it’s almost impossible to now. Something – more than one something, actually – crosses his face, and he visibly hesitates and swallows before he looks down, and then back up. “Yeah, well,” he says, and takes another sip from his beer in a transparent effort to stall. “Gotta figure out how to get him out of the Empty first, don’t I?”
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 30
Kudos: 245
Collections: Profound Bond Gift Exchange: Reunion, my favorite Destiel fics





	in the absence of a plan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prosopopeya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosopopeya/gifts).



> This got away from me way too fast and ended up not anything like the 5+1 outsider's perspective on Dean's sexuality and happy ending that I wanted it to be (I got done with part 1 and it was like 2k words and I knew there was no way I could do my original idea justice in the 8k limit!), but it did help me work out some feelings about the finale, and the soft epilogue they all deserved. I hope you enjoy it for how it came out, prosopopeya!
> 
> Alternative title: Sam Winchester vs. Comphet because hoo boy the comphet is real.

The drive home is quiet.

On paper, that’s nothing new: they’ve spent most of their lives on this bench seat, driving from when the sky’s grey and not fully light yet well into the stretches of night that feel endless. Many of those drives have been done with only a handful of words exchanged. But the quiet is rarely ever _quiet_.

Dean’s come a long way from the fidgety twenty-something who couldn’t keep still if his life depended on it, but he’s still not good at being still. Even after long drives and longer hunts, when he’s in a good mood, the Impala is filled with little movements: a thumb casually tapping out the beat of a cassette that’s so worn, Sam has memories set to the squeaks and crackles where the tape wore thin decades ago. The sounds of the road passing by, and the wind rushing through the open window as they take in the fresh air and sunlight. Little, contented sighs that are far too rare. Even the looks he’ll shoot Sam’s way every now and then, as if to check that Sam’s just as content as he is, are warm and treasured enough to almost hear.

Far more commonly, if only because Dean _excels_ at channeling any other emotion into anger, are the rough drives. The cassette player will be silent, almost mockingly so, but the thrum of the engines’ rev in unison with the latest clench of Dean’s jaw have just as much a familiar place in the soundtrack of Sam’s life. The seats creak and moan with every huffed breath and Dean’s knuckles go so white-tight around the steering wheel the leather audibly complains, and Sam’s teeth will ache from biting down something he can’t take back. Whether it’s cold fury or the heat of a worn-out, ongoing battle, their disagreements are loud without ever having to say a word.

But on the drive home from Hastings, it’s just… quiet. There’s no sighing, no fidgeting, no unspoken conversations. There’s a million and one things running through Sam’s mind, about God, about Jack, about what it means that those two may things are essentially now one and the same. About Eileen, and how he has no clue how he’s going to see if she’s okay, given how the shattered remains of her cell phone are in the duffel in the trunk, and how he doesn’t even know if she’ll _want_ anything to do with him anymore, and how he doesn’t have any clue how to figure out what _he_ wants. About Cas, and the awful, too-familiar pit of grief in his chest that comes with having to deal with this loss one final time. About Dean, and the future, and how fucking terrified he is, and how selfish that already feels.

But every time he looks over to see if Dean’s struggling with even a fraction of the same things, it’s… he’s blank. Exhaustion is written on every line of his face, perhaps more starkly than Sam’s ever seen before, but that’s it. There’s no visible grief making his breaths uneven, no anger narrowing his eyes, no determination in the way his hands are gripping the wheel, no contentment or peace anywhere to be found. The silence isn’t even weighty, just never-ending, and Sam finds he can’t even open his mouth to see what words would fall out.

It isn’t until they’re home, uncapping two bottles of beer in an unspoken, bittersweet, fucking sham of a toast that Sam exhales, finally feeling something settle beneath his ribs. It’s still there, and he has a feeling it’ll be there for far, far too long, but he can inhale without feeling like he’s going to vomit, and when he clears his throat, he finds he can speak. “It’s pretty quiet.”

Dean barely looks at him when he nods, then holds his beer out. “To everyone that we lost along the way.”

It feels… off. The words feel like they should be an ending, a milestone, a way to close out this chapter and figure out where the next pages take them. Instead, it feels like a mockery. Sam wonders if Dean feels it too, with the way he hesitates, his whole body straining like there’s something that’s trying to break free. If there is, it loses the fight: there’s a small, half-bitten off sigh, and he raises the bottle to his lips.

“You know,” Sam says, more searching for something to keep the silence at bay than having any big revelation, “with Chuck… not writing our story anymore, we get to write our own.” Maybe tomorrow that’ll feel better, but right now it just sits heavy on his tongue. “You know, just you and me going wherever the story takes us. Just us.”

It’s meant to be reassuring, a reminder as much to himself as to Dean that they’re no longer puppets in Chuck’s hack story, that they’re in control of the rest of their lives. But judging by how hollow Dean’s, “Finally free,” echoes, it didn’t convince either one of them.

It’s not fair to attribute everything to Chuck. All of their successes, all of their failures, all of their growth. No matter what the artist formerly known as God threw their way, it was still theirs to deal with, theirs to live. But maybe there’s something to that after all, and maybe none of their adult lives were _theirs_ , because Sam feels like a lost little kid again when he laughs, more terror than humor in it, and says, “So now what?”

For whatever reason, something in what he said must get through to Dean, because it’s the first smile that reaches even halfway to his eyes. “Now we drink,” he says, pushing himself off the edge of the table, hooking a foot around one of the chairs, and settling in, “and we shoot the shit, and if we’re lucky, we get a good night’s sleep for the first time in our sorry lives.” He takes a long pull of his beer, as if to demonstrate, and when he swallows, he looks at the table for a moment that stretches just a little too long. “And then tomorrow you’re gonna get in one of the dozen cars we have in the garage and drive to Eileen’s house, and you’re gonna get your happy ending.”

It’s so stupid, how Sam can feel his cheeks heating up, but he can also feel a real, honest-to-God (and okay, there’s a bunch of phrases that are going to feel weird for a good while) smile growing, too, and he ducks his head. It’s happiness, he thinks, and it’s as unfamiliar and terrifying as it is exciting. There’s still so much to deal with – starting with the fact that he doesn’t even know what his ‘happy ending’ looks like, only that, yeah, okay, starting it out with Eileen is as good an idea as any – but for once, maybe he can look at the unknown as a good thing instead of looking for ways it might come back to bite him in the ass. Maybe he can let himself be happy. Huh. The urge to fight back his smile is still there, but he scratches his jaw and forces himself to let it be. When he looks back up, he half-expects Dean to tease him, but the smile on his brother’s face is genuine, if a little tired.

Maybe tired isn’t the word, but Sam sure as hell doesn’t know what the word _is_. Either way, the question is out of his mouth before he can think better of it. “And you? What about your happy ending?”

If Dean’s expression had been hard to read before, it’s almost impossible to now. Something – more than one something, actually – crosses his face, and he visibly hesitates and swallows before he looks down, and then back up. “Yeah, well,” he says, and takes another sip from his beer in a transparent effort to stall.

Sam… isn’t really surprised. Hell, Dean’s said as much too many times to count: for all his life, he’s figured, almost anticipated that his ending would come at the end of a barrel of a gun, or a vamp fang, or a knife, or anything else bloody and violent and cruel. Sam had been the one to cling to things, to project his hopes and wishes on anyone or anything who’d stand still long enough for him to run to. Stanford, Jess, Ruby, Amelia. Dean’s almost embraced the nihilism, as if he can’t stand to be disappointed by allowing himself to hope for anything more. It’s awful, and sad, and so predictable that Sam already knows what the next words are going to be: something about Sam’s happy ending being Dean’s happy ending that’d almost be sweet if it wasn’t so _sad_ , or some glib remark about finding it in the bottom of one of the bottles of whiskey around here, or even something too honest about not thinking there’s one in the cards for him.

“Gotta figure out how to get him out of the Empty first, don’t I?”

And that’s… not what Sam expected at all. But beyond the knee-jerk ‘wait what?’ reaction that has his mouth dropping it makes sense. Still sad, and still awful, and still makes that little throb of pity in his chest known, but of course. Of course Dean wouldn’t be able to sit still long enough to figure out what he wants out of life while Cas is still in the Empty. His guilt has always run deeper than Sam’s – and that’s saying something – and while of course Sam is grieving, and of course Sam is horrified that Cas is doomed to an eternal sleep at best, and of course Sam is going to miss him, already misses him something fierce, it’s always been different for Dean. It was what started the whole path of dominoes that led to Cas coming into their lives in the first place: he’d never been able to say goodbye.

It’s almost like Dean expects Sam not to get it, though. He isn’t looking him in the eye, and he’s so _fidgety_ in a way that Sam hasn’t seen in a long time; one hand’s got a death grip on the bottle, the other is tracing the raised edges where they’d crudely carved Cas and Jack’s names into the table besides theirs and Mom’s initials.

Does he think that Sam will judge him for this or something? They’ve had a lifetime to build these kinds of habits, and it’s going to take longer than just one long day to break them. And, well. It’s _Cas_. “Yeah, I mean. We’ll do what we can, Dean. But when we get Cas out,” and he’s sticking with when, because even if he’s not sure he believes it, he has to, and not just for Dean’s sake, “are you gonna figure out what your happy ending looks like?”

Now Dean looks up, something close to confusion on his face. And that’s even sadder than Sam gave him credit for. Is the idea of a happy ending that much beyond comprehension? 

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, something slow and purposefully patient about his tone, and it’s really not fair that _he’s_ the one that sounds like he’s tiptoeing around for _Sam’s_ benefit. “You’ll get your happy ending with Eileen. I’ll, uh, I’ll figure mine out. With Cas.”

Great. He still doesn’t get it. Sam just sighs, figuring that that’s enough for now. Freedom is a new taste, and it’s going to take some time to get used to it. His smile is a little crooked when he picks his own bottle up and tilts it Dean’s way. “Well. To figuring it out, I guess.”

Something in Dean’s smile looks a little dimmer, and his sigh feels a little deeper. “Yeah, no kidding.”

\---

In the end it comes down to Jack. Jack, wonderful, inhuman Jack who even stands differently now, appears in the war room and sends a stack of books flying. Sam’s running on probably ten hours of sleep total over the past four days, and judging by the collection of dirty cups and filters full of used coffee grounds that’ve appeared in every nook and cranny, Dean’s had even less. But when Jack beams at them and says, “I think I figured it out,” all three of them are like live wires, and preparations have never seemed easier.

The only thing that threatens the grin on Sam’s face is when Jack’s own smile falters for a moment and he turns to him with big, sad eyes. “I wasn’t sure,” he admits, and it’s hard to hear him over the clatter of Dean running around, gathering what Jack said he needed to open a doorway into the Empty. “If it was the right thing, to get Castiel. He can help, I know he can, but… is this wrong? Or selfish? Am I starting down the same path as Chuck?”

Sam doesn’t know what Jack means by help, but his heart aches. Jack saved the world. Faith is something that’s hard to come by these days: it’s been whittled away, chopped and hacked to bits, leaving behind hurt that’s become nothing but knotted scar tissue, and the idea of anything divine pulling the shots is enough to make Sam uneasy. But if there’s anyone he can put his faith in, it’s Jack, Jack who sees the world with such innocence and hope and _love_. Jack, who was supposed to bring about the Earth’s ruin, and instead fell in love with it and chooses to protect it with every turn he takes. It just breaks his heart that he has to. Jack’s their kid, but he never got a chance to just _be_ that kid, and now he’s having to make the kinds of decisions that could shape – or break – a universe. “No,” Sam says, and hopes Jack can hear the conviction in it. “If there’s one thing I believe, Jack, it’s that.”

The shadow lifts from Jack’s face, but the bruised feeling in Sam’s heart doesn’t go away. It stays there, gnawing at him as Jack steps into the doorway they open, and even drowns out the way Dean shuffles and paces and grumbles under his breath for every long minute that passes without it reappearing.

Sam finally gets a good look at his face and Dean’s _wrecked_ , like hope and terror and grim determination have all carved out space in the frown lines. He knows the feeling: he doesn’t think he takes a full breath until the air crackles and the doorway opens, black nothingness giving way to a silhouette larger than the one that went in.

Jack stumbles out, grin so bright Sam’s not sure he’s not actually glowing. Cas looks a little worse for wear as he staggers out too. His trench coat is dirty and creased, the bags under his eyes are deeper than usual, and he looks as exhausted as Sam’s felt the past few days, but he’s _here_.

Sam hears a choked, awful noise from Dean and has to blink back tears. Between one blink and the next, Dean’s launched himself towards them, wrestles Cas away from Jack’s shoulder and has him in a hug that looks so tight it looks painful, words muffled as he bites them out into Cas’s coat. From here, all Sam can hear is snatches – the overarching theme being, of course, how much of a fucking dumbass Cas is – but it feels right, and for the first time in a long, long time, he feels whole. His family is here, and when he reaches out to grab Jack into a hug, too, it’s easy to forget for a moment that their kid is the new God, and that they’re all just a little broken, and that healing is going to take a long time.

Once Dean’s peeled himself away from Cas, Sam goes in for a hug, too, and doesn’t miss how tired and shaky Cas’s smile looks. “Glad you’re back, man,” he says, words barely making it out through the lump in his throat.

Cas just nods, but any unsurety Sam might have felt at the lackluster response dissolves with how tightly Cas hugs back. 

It’s almost absurd, how the next few hours feel, but every time Sam starts to settle into the normalcy of it, something jars him from it. Cas’s Grace is dampened enough that he needs to sit down and rest. The pizza doesn’t come from a run Dean makes to the town over, but from Jack, popping out and back into the bunker in a flash and proclaiming it’s straight from Sicily (it’s delicious, but still so fucking weird). There’s no underlying tension related to some Big Bad being out there, undefeated. Weirdest of all, maybe, Cas won’t look at Dean. Dean keeps looking at Cas, both when he’s talking and when he’s not, but the usual flow of things is different in ways that seem even more jarring and off-tempo than when they’d do their weird staring thing, something Sam didn’t even realize he was used to until now, when it’s missing. It takes a while to notice, too, but Dean’s not saying a word directly to Cas. Every time Cas looks Dean’s way only to look away a moment later, Dean looks more and more like a kicked puppy, and that’s…. This is supposed to be _it_. They’re supposed to all be good, all have a fresh start. What the hell happened?

Their stomachs are full and beers emptied, and things are coming to a natural lull when Jack finally stands up, gives them all a smile, and then turns to Cas. “I think it’s time to go, Castiel.”

Gone is the comfortable quiet, and in its place is something awful, tense and panicky. “Go?” Sam asks, at the same time that Dean stands and says, louder, “What?”

Now Cas won’t look at either of them. Jack’s smile is still wide, but it falters a little as he looks first at Sam, then at Dean, like he just realized there’s part of this they aren’t getting. “Well… yeah. Me and Amara and some of the humans that were part of this fight – Charlie Bradbury, Bobby Singer, Kevin Tran, some of the others you told me about? We’re working on fixing heaven. Making it the way it should be, instead of how Chuck had it before. Castiel agreed to come back with me, to help.”

And… putting aside the gut-punch of hurt because they _just_ got him back, because this is the first time they’ve had the chance to just be, all three of them, it… makes sense? The thought of losing both Cas and Jack at once, in only seeing them in small snatches here and there when they can pull themselves away from their work up in Heaven _sucks_. It does, and it’s not what Sam wants at all. But this is a new beginning for all of them, and it’s not just Dean who needs to learn to let go.

For as long as they’ve known Cas, he’s been so full of guilt. He’s been forced to make difficult choice after difficult choice, and it’s led to a lot of pain, and a lot of destruction up in Heaven. He’s actively torn down his home, killed fellow angel after fellow angel in the name of free will and doing the right thing. For him to now have the chance to go up and fix it? To take the time he’s spent on Earth, the understanding and love and appreciation he’s come to have for people, the absolutely unique point of view he’s had as being both an angel and one of humanity’s staunchest defenders, and pour it into Heaven? To make paradise as it should have been, in the way that even their former God failed to do? To stand beside Jack, who he’d defended from the first, who he’d passed on all his lessons of hope and compassion to? Yeah, Cas is the _perfect_ choice for the job. And it hurts, but if this is Cas’s happy ending, who is Sam to stand in the way?

Dean, naturally, doesn’t agree.

“What the _fuck_ , Cas?”

“Dean—” Sam starts, but he might as well be talking to a wall for all the good it does.

“No, you told me what– you said that you– you’re just going to _leave_?” He looks _wild_ , more desperate than Sam’s seen him in a long, long time.

For what feels like the first time all night, Cas looks up and directly at Dean. There’s something just as broken, just as desperate in his expression, and it makes the small smile on his face look wrong. “I’m needed there.”

“You’re needed here!”

“Dean.”

Sam almost wishes he wasn’t here for this. He loves Cas too, of course, and he’s also upset at the thought of losing him, but this feels personal. When it comes to Cas and Dean, it always feels personal: Cas is one of the few things that always has Dean wearing his heart on his sleeve, and from Sam more than anyone, Dean has always tried to hide that. Maybe it’s a side-effect of growing up the way they did, but Dean only shows vulnerability in fits in starts: small, almost shameful admissions while propped up side by side on the Impala’s hood, or muttered down more to a too-full glass of whiskey rather than to Sam’s face, or in the moments where adrenaline gave way to relief and they took their first deep breaths. They’re moments Sam treasures, moments when he got to see the real Dean through all the posturing and bullshit and attempts to baby Sam, but they’re also moments that _hurt_. In the past decade, more and more often, they’ve been when Cas left, willingly or otherwise. This time is going to be awful, and maybe it’s cowardly, but for a moment, he wishes he could step outside, delay the inevitable.

“No, you _don’t_ get it, okay? You got to do your big speech, but you didn’t give me time to say a damn word.”

It’s the first time Sam’s heard anything about a speech, and as much as the discomfort is still there, curiosity overtakes it for a moment. He’s not stupid: he knew something went down before the Empty took Cas. It had been all over Dean’s face. But there hadn’t been time, and with how determined Dean was to push through and finish the job, Sam hadn’t wanted to press, hadn’t wanted to be the one to break through the determination to expose the raw grief below.

Dean takes a ragged breath. “You said you couldn’t have it. Cas, man, you never _asked_.”

Cas’s shoulders slump, and he looks down at the table once more. There’s something awful on his face, something broken and so human that it hurts to look at for more than a moment, and Sam tears his gaze away. “I didn’t have to.”

“Yeah, well, I thought I didn’t have to ask either, because I thought _I_ knew, but it turns out I was wrong.”

And Sam still has no idea what they’re talking about, but it must mean something to Cas, because he jerks his head up so sharply, Sam all but feels his own neck twinge in sympathy.

Something too nervous to be a smile lights on Dean’s face and he laughs, thin and reedy, and says, “See, here was me thinking everyone saw past all my bullshit, but hell, even Sam’s got no fucking clue.”

Wait, what? Sam can’t help himself. “No clue about _what_ , Dean?”

Dean laughs again, but it feels more real this time, even – especially, maybe – with the sad edge it has to it. “See?” he says, but he’s looking only at Cas, and this time, Cas isn’t looking away. “Shit, I flat-out told him you were my happy ending and he just nodded and went, ‘yeah, you have time to figure it out’ --” and, okay, Sam does _not_ sound like that – “and I’m starting to think that maybe I’m a little too good at the posturing shit.”

Sam’s pretty sure his eyebrows have taken up residence near his hairline. He’s still not sure what’s going on here, what they’re talking around, but Dean openly admitting to being full of shit and using the word ‘posturing’ is a rarity.

Cas, poor guy, looks just as overwhelmed. “You never said.”

“Neither did you, until you thought it was the end,” Dean says, and despite the audible frustration and hurt, there’s no venom in it. “Anyway, it’s not like I didn’t _try_. You cut me off, and told me you already knew.”

The noise that’s dragged out of Cas’s throat is new, something strangled and indignant and despairing all at once, and Sam’s not sure whether to laugh or be alarmed. From the wide-eyed look Jack gives him across the table, it looks like he’s just as much at a loss here. “ _When_?”

“Purgatory.” It’s the first time that Dean’s been looking away when Sam looks over. He’s turned his head finally, and there’s color blooming in his neck and cheeks. Huh.

“ _Dean_.” The way Cas stands seems almost like an afterthought, like he’s barely aware of anything else right now except Dean. …Which is probably accurate, to be honest. Neither of them seem all that aware that Sam and Jack are still here, and Sam clears his throat almost automatically.

Sure enough, Dean almost jumps, eyes darting to Sam and then to Jack and then back at Sam for another beat, and the flush strengthens. But stronger is the set of his jaw, and even if Sam’s still a little lost, he knows that look on his brother’s face. “So. It’s… you could stay. If you wanted.”

Even to Sam, it’s weak, and he can’t blame Cas for the way his face falls, just a little, just for a moment. It’s replaced almost as quickly with something fierce and familiar, Castiel the soldier making his reappearance. “What do _you_ want?”

It’s a damn good question, and one that Sam’s not sure Dean even has an answer to, if their discussion from four days ago is any sign.

Dean laughs again, and this final time it actually sounds like laughter, something lighter and warmer than the jagged scoffs he usually scrapes out. “I have no fucking clue, except that I _want_ to figure it out. And I—I want you. Here, with me. But I want you to want that, too.”

Cas just keeps staring, and when he finally makes a move, it’s to look at Jack, face all screwed up. “I—I don’t—”

Understanding dawns on Jack’s face – must be nice, because Sam still feels like he’s a couple dozen steps behind over here – and his smile is back, softer. “Oh. Castiel. Father. I’m not making you choose.”

Cas closes his eyes for a long moment, and when he opens them, the fierceness and the confusion are gone, replaced with something fragile. It looks a little like hope. “Dean, are you—if you’re not sure— I can’t keep doing the same thing, I _won’t_ —”

“I’m not saying I won’t mess this up, because fuck knows I will,” Dean says, but he’s got something like hope on his face too, smile shaky but broadening. “But yeah. I’m sure. Yes. I want this, and I swear, we’ll figure it out.”

There’s… something about the way Cas grins, something about how they’re both looking at each other with – are those _tears_ in their eyes?? Something’s both familiar and weirdly, completely new and it’s throwing Sam for a loop, because it’s almost like –

“I think Dean and I have things to talk about,” Cas tells Jack, but he’s still locked in his staring thing with Dean (and yeah, it’d been weird without it, but now Sam’s not so sure he should’ve been so eager to have it back). “I’ll pray to you tomorrow, and we can figure out how this will work. I… I’d still like to help. But I think… I’d like for my home to be here.”

Jack, to his credit, doesn’t look disappointed or upset at all. Nor does he look surprised, really. He looks at Cas, then Dean, the expression on his face almost like _he’s_ the proud parent and they’re the kids, and then he turns his grin on Sam. “I’ll tell them all you said hi.”

The thought of them seeing Jack hurts, but in the best way. Sam hopes that they see past the new-God thing to the kid underneath, to see how _good_ he is. For the first time, he thinks of Heaven as something to look forward to, to getting the chance to see all the people he’s loved and lost and telling them everything they missed.

Just… not for a while. Not for a long while, if he has anything to say about it.

He stands up and pulls Jack into a tight hug, so glad that they get to have this. Fuck what Jack said about being in the raindrops or whatever – there’s no way they’re going to let the kid stay away for too long. His eyes meet Dean’s over the top of Jack’s head and they come to a silent agreement on that.

“C’mere, kid,” Dean says, and it’s his turn to tug him in. “We’re proud of you, you know that, right?”

Well shit. Now Sam’s the one that feels near tears. 

He’d worried that the Jack they knew would be changed, gone somehow, but despite the different way he carries himself, power all but visible in his body, his face is the same as ever, childish and understanding as he says goodbye and disappears in a blink.

So now Sam’s left with… whatever is going on here. Some of his bewilderment must show on his face, because Dean tears his gaze away from Cas to look at Sam, and whatever he sees there makes him grin, glee replacing the almost shy look there. “See, and Sammy still has no goddamn idea what just happened, does he?”

The way Cas looks at Dean is so damn fond it’s almost embarrassing to look at, but it just itches again at that part of his brain that feels like he’s _almost_ there. Cas shakes his head. “Even having all of the context, I’m still struggling to keep up, so perhaps you should give him a break.”

Being talked about like he’s not in the room is annoying as hell, and while it’s not enough to puncture the contentment Sam feels at how things have turned out, it’s still enough to make him scowl a bit. “Mind filling me in?”

Dean’s in peak obnoxious big brother mode when he just shakes his head and waggles his eyebrows. “You’ll figure it out. Maybe. Eventually. Come on, Cas.” He holds his hand out.

Cas takes it, and both of them do their staring thing again, neither letting go of the other’s hand. Sam feels like he’s on the precipice of something, like all he needs is a little push –

\-- and Dean looks his way, throws his head back laughing like an idiot, and then makes a point of threading his fingers with Cas’s. “I’m not saying you’re going to want to put your noise cancelling headphones on, but I’m also not _not_ saying it. We got a lot to, uh, talk through.”

Sam’s brain stalls for a moment, then goes through a reboot, and it clicks. It. Wait, _what_? Oh. Oh, holy shit. Oh. Wow that’s—

“There it is,” Dean says, still too fucking gleeful, and heads out, tugging Cas along right behind him.

Huh.

It’s going to take some time, to recontextualize a million things, not the least of which all the times Sam never quite understood why Dean took things with Cas so much harder, because _shit_ things are making so much sense in ways that are both wonderful and awful in hindsight – but for now Sam just finds himself smiling, so full of hope and, for the first time, not looking for the other shoe.

\---

“You literally told me I’d have my happy ending with Eileen and you’d have yours with Cas,” Sam says, groaning.

(There’s a few excruciatingly awkward moments the next morning where Sam has to pretend he _hadn’t_ had to put his headphones on last night, where he finds reasons not to look Dean in the eye because there are some noises that you never want to hear from your brother and your pseudo-brother best friend down the hall. There’s also the horrifically stilted exchange they stutter through where Sam makes some comment about Cas always having been Dean’s exception, and then Dean turns interesting colors as he mutters something about, yeah, maybe not so much an exception, and Sam quietly has another mental breakdown about all the things he’d somehow missed. “Dude,” Dean says, and he has that same confused, alarmed, amused look as when Sam had missed the whole ‘happy ending’ thing the first time, “you met Lee. What did you think that was?” Sam just splutters.)

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, sipping at his coffee, and he looks so damn _happy_ that Sam doesn’t have the heart to make a pointed comment about the brazen purple mark on his throat. “You always were a little slow on the uptake.”


End file.
